


You, who tried to change how you're all alone

by NinthFeather



Category: Kagerou Project, Mekakucity Actors, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Gen, Great Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock gets some unexpected help during the hiatus, Supernatural Elements, Women Being Awesome, but it's Sherlock so the help couldn't be normal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinthFeather/pseuds/NinthFeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incident from the Great Hiatus, in which Sherlock travels to Japan on a tip from Mycroft, deduces a bunch of odd people, and is literally forced by one of them to have emotions.  Oh, and discovers that they understand his--and John's--current situations to an extent he would not wish on anyone.  </p><p>John, he imagines, would be impressed.  Or perhaps too busy lecturing him about eating regularly to care.</p><p> </p><p>While this is a crossover between Sherlock and a Japanese media franchise known as Kagerou Project/Mekakucity Actors, you only absolutely need to know Sherlock to understand the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You, who tried to change how you're all alone

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlock, this is set during the Great Hiatus and is slightly AU; if you've seen Series 3, you'll be able to spot where I added in non-canonical details easily. 
> 
> The title is a translated quote from the Mekakucity Actors opening, Daze (written by Jin/Shizen no Teki-P). I thought it fit Sherlock and the fic pretty well.
> 
> If you're familiar with KagePro/MCA, you'll notice that I altered the timeline. "Kagerou Days" and the rest of the main events of canon happened two years ago, rather than in 2040 or whenever the anime claimed it happened. So, this fic is post-canon. Like every other KagePro/MCA writer, I had to make some assumptions about exactly what post-canon would even look like, but you can find an explanation in the end notes.
> 
> Thank-you to miladyRanger for the beta-reading; I especially appreciate the fact that she continues beta-ing KagePro fics even as she shakes her head at my taste in anime.

Sherlock dragged his feet down the streets of Prague, acutely conscious of the lecture that his current state of health would earn him should John ever discover it.  In the past, he’d always been fine even after skipping a day’s worth of meals.  But perhaps skipping three days’ worth while running through Prague’s back alleys with a particularly dedicated assassin dogging his every movement had finally dragged him rather near that “physical limit” John was always going on about.

Of course, John still believed him dead, and thus would not be repeating that lecture to him anytime soon.  If Sherlock allowed himself to dwell on that thought, he started feeling uncomfortable and unaccountably hungry for a cup of slightly over-steeped tea. So, for the last year and a half, at least, he’d been trying not to.  Besides, in a grey trenchcoat, with his newly-dyed ginger hair—it had been chestnut-brown since France—he doubted John would even recognize him if they passed one another on the street.

The sky was whitish-grey with the promise of snow, and some was slowly beginning to fall, adding to the already thick spread of snow and salt that crunched beneath Sherlock’s flimsy boots.  Normally, he would not have allowed even a member of his homeless network to wear such sorry excuses for foot coverings, but his funds were rather limited at the moment, so he made do. 

A woman wrapped in a ridiculous number of scarves and shawls slammed into his shoulder, and Sherlock felt the left pocket of his coat dip lower under newly-added weight.  One of Mycroft’s people, then.  He wondered what questionable bit of help his brother had decided to offer this time.

He was half-tempted to refuse whatever it was, based on the principle that owing his brother seldom ended well for him.  However, he couldn’t really deny that he could use a change of scenery, nor that evading his pursuer over the last few days had rather depleted his supply of money.

He slipped into the doorway of a rather abandoned-looking storefront and rested the back of his head on an awkwardly-hung “CLOSED” sign, then reached into his pocket.

His fingers closed on an envelope made of thick, smooth paper—the kind a good business might use to send out letters.  It was swollen to at least a centimeter and a half thick, reinforcing Sherlock’s suspicion that his brother had, indeed, sent money.  As usual, the envelope was untouched by pen, and no doubt any note inside would be typed like the others—it was important that no one be able to link him to Mycroft, nor Mycroft to him, for both their sakes.

He withdrew the envelope and opened it, noting the presence of several hundred pounds before withdrawing the expected typed note nestled between two of the larger bills.  It was written in a familiar cypher, one dating back to the primary-school days when he and Mycroft still got on.  Sherlock decoded it in minutes, though he imagined any cryptologist who made an attempt at the task would find it much more time-consuming.

The note was a bit more extensive than Sherlock had anticipated.

_Some contacts of mine wish to confer with you on a manner of some importance.  Normally, I would use the excuse of, “Sherlock is dead,” as I have over the past year and a half; however, one of these contacts is a great deal cleverer than most people, and determined that your death was a ruse within weeks of the event.  As they were quite insistent, I have elected to pass on their invitation for you to meet with them.  Please use some of the enclosed money to purchase a plane ticket to Narita International Airport; someone will be there to meet you.  Specifically, you should look for an individual holding a sign that says “Hat-man.”_

_I do hope you are continuing to take care of yourself.  You know how Mother worries._

_Regards,_

_Your brother_

Sherlock was rather peeved that Mycroft had given him no information whatsoever beyond the fact that there were multiple contacts and one of them was clever, but it couldn’t be helped.  As loathe as he was to trust his brother to any extent, he was fully aware that Mycroft meticulously checked the backgrounds of everyone with which he did business even before Moriarty, and it stood to reason that his process had only become more stringent following that disaster.  If Mycroft felt comfortable sending Sherlock to these people with minimal information, he either trusted them or believed that Sherlock was capable of dealing with them.

Also, a plane ride sounded _splendid_.  Once he observed everyone aboard and made certain none of them were threats, he could sleep for the rest of the trip.  Also, while airline food was awful, he would at least be able to sit down and eat it without feeling as though he needed to check his surroundings every five seconds, which had been a relatively rare experience for him this year.

Besides, he’d never been to Chiba prefecture.  Now was as good a time as any for a visit.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock walked out into the airport feeling comparatively well-rested, which was rather pathetic, given that the individual seated next to him snored in a way that suggested he was afflicted with sleep apnea, and had prevented Sherlock from getting more than a few hours of rest.  On top of that pleasant experience, he’d also had an in-flight meal that could only be described as a rather bad Salisbury steak imitator.  On the whole, he wasn’t particularly happy.

His mood did not improve upon sighting his contact’s representative—or representatives, it seemed.  The sign, which read “Hat-man” as promised, was in the hands of a sleeping woman who Sherlock estimated to be in her early twenties.  She, along with a young man, was sitting underneath an exit sign that was flickering in an odd rhythm, especially given that this one was obviously electrical rather than fluorescent.

The woman was sprawled out across the seat in a way that not even John would be generous enough to term as “ladylike.”  A bit of the black hair she’d pulled into twin pigtails had become caught in the corner of her wide-open mouth as she slept.  Normally, the style would indicate to Sherlock that the wearer was attempting to seem younger than their authentic age, but given her clothing-- loafers, a pair of brown slacks, a t-shirt and a black sweatshirt—he was more inclined to call it an accustomed hairstyle she’d been wearing since she was much younger.   A pair of worn-looking, old-fashioned black headphones covered her ears.  She wore no makeup or nail polish, and her nails were trimmed short, indicating tomboyish tendencies.  Her pallor also spoke to a disdain for outdoor activities.  Either she was an intern or a new recruit of whatever organization had contacted Mycroft.

Beside her sat a man of roughly the same age, also wearing headphones, though his hung around his neck.  He wore a red sweatshirt with white stripes running from the shoulders down the arms, along with a pair of jeans and red trainers.  His hair was black and a bit too long for a salaryman, and the sweatshirt was a bit ragged—perhaps he was unemployed?  Or at least, that was most likely his cover.  He was as pale as the woman, and noticeably underweight for his approximate age and height.  A laptop bag sat near his feet, while the laptop from within sat on his lap, his dark eyes focused intently on its screen.

The man looked up as Sherlock studied him, and seemed to be studying Sherlock in return.  Recognition lit his eyes nearly instantly, and he closed his laptop and put it into his bag.

“Oi, Ene, he’s here,” he said aloud.

Beside him, the woman woke with a start. Sherlock noted with a bit of confusion that the sign behind them had abruptly ceased flickering.  It was most likely a coincidence, but he couldn’t dismiss it out of hand without knowing for certain that it was.  Filing the piece of data away in his mind-palace for later examination, he returned his attention to the two individuals now approaching him.

Despite having just woken up, the woman didn’t seem tired in the least.  She shook her hair away from her face before extending a hand.

“Enomoto Takane,” she said brusquely, in Japanese. “I’m not expecting you to introduce yourself in return; we already know who you are anyway.  He’s Kisaragi Shintarou,” she added, jerking a thumb toward the man.

The man—Shintarou—made what he most likely believed to be a rather good attempt at a welcoming smile.  Sherlock was slightly disturbed by it, in truth, though his discomfort was tempered by the certainty that the unsettling nature of the smile was more likely a product of the man’s social incompetence than of any actual ill intent.

Takane rolled her eyes at the man.  “Honestly, Shintarou _-kun_ ,” she complained, before turning back to Sherlock.  “Don’t mind him, he’s just a dorky recovering hikki-NEET with no social skills.”

While Sherlock’s Japanese was more than adequate, his skill with slang left something to be desired.  However, _hikki-NEET_ was one of the phrases he knew, if only in connection with a number of news stories linking the phenomena with increased likelihood of eventual criminal activity.

 _Hikki-NEET is a compound slang term composed of the words hikkikomori and NEET,_ he recalled.  _‘Hikkikomori’ are individuals who actively avoid social contact, to the point of spending most or all of their time confined to their houses or rooms,_ _while NEET is an abbreviation referring to an individual ‘not currently engaged in employment, education or training.’_

He regarded Shintarou carefully.  Despite the unkempt hair and ragged clothing, he didn’t really give the impression of laziness, though the set of his shoulders at the moment suggested he did at least have some tendency toward social anxiety.  This didn’t bode particularly well, as Sherlock had been known to cause some amount of social anxiety even in people not at all inclined toward it.

 _And these people ought to have known that when they sent him to pick me up_ , Sherlock decided, dismissing his own concern almost immediately.

“So, where are you taking me?” he asked aloud, also in Japanese.

“For now, to the car,” Shintarou said, turning abruptly and walking toward the exit.  Takane gestured for him to follow, and the three of them emerged through the doorway into a dingy stairwell.  “The parking lot entrance is on Level 1, we were on Level 3,” he added.

“After that, we’ll be taking you to Ayano _-chan_ ’s house,” Takane added as they continued down the stairs.  “She and Kido _-chan_ are cooking, so you can look forward to a good meal, at least.”

Unwilling to admit precisely how pleasant that sounded, Sherlock asked, “And what exactly do you want to discuss with me?”

“Something we aren’t talking about here,” Takane said firmly.  “There are four video cameras in this stairwell, even if one of them does have a cracked lens.”

 _Perhaps she isn’t an intern after all,_ Sherlock thought.  _Except…she’s rather young to be that…nearly competent._

“You remember where we parked?” Takane called to Shintarou, her tone teasing.

Shintarou huffed and pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket.  “Shut up, Ene.”

 _A nickname,_ Sherlock observed.  _No honorific, but a nickname wouldn’t necessarily require one.  Still, it seems as though these two are somewhat close—if their surnames weren’t different, I’d be inclined to believe they were siblings._

“Dork,” she accused.

“What does that make you?” he replied, good-naturedly.

 Shintarou stepped off of the stairs at the landing marked “1” and opened the glass door leading out into the parking lot. The air outside was chill, but not uncomfortably so, at least not for Sherlock.  Of course, he was wearing a coat, while his companions merely wore sweatshirts. 

Predictably, Takane shivered.  “We parked close, right?  Please tell me we parked close.”

“Momo got us reserved parking,” Shintarou said.  “We’re, like, three yards from here.”

“Mooching off your sister again?” Takane asked.

“Ayano asked this favor, not me,” Shintarou said, a bit defensively, turning briefly to hold up his hands in a gesture of innocence.  He wore a slight grin that was actually somewhat normal-looking, indicating that the more unsettling smiles only occurred when he was uncomfortable.

 _No honorific again,_ Sherlock noted. _Momo is obviously his sister…perhaps Ayano is another sibling.  Of course, girlfriend is another possibility, but it hardly seems a likely one._

They walked across a parking lot free of ice but still somewhat covered in salt until they reached a rather modest-looking red Subaru.  Shintarou unlocked it, while Takane turned to Sherlock.

“Wanna ride in the front or the back?” she offered.

“When did you learn manners?” Shintarou asked, as he got into the driver’s seat.

“Shut up!” Takane snapped.

Convinced that the two would likely carry on arguing if allowed to sit next to one another, Sherlock went for the option that offered some possibility of quiet.  “The front, please.”

Takane scowled a bit, but stepped back to allow Sherlock to approach the passenger’s seat door and get in.

As he fastened his seatbelt, he heard the back door slam closed.  “Let’s get going,” Takane said.  “She’ll kill us both if we’re late for dinner.”

Shintarou snorted, and started to make a retort, but stopped himself.  As he turned the key in the ignition, Sherlock tried to guess at the insult he’d avoided saying.

“You were about to tell her that she should drive,” he said over the sound of the engine starting.  “Why didn’t you?”

“She can’t,” Shintarou said simply, turning around in his seat to look out the back window.

“You’re clear to back out, Shintarou _-kun_ ,” Takane said.  “They won’t license me.”

“Narcolepsy?” he guessed, thinking back on how he’d first seen her.

“That’s it,” Takane said.  “I have attacks a _lot_ less frequently since high school, but as long as I still have them sometimes…I’m a hazard, I guess.”

“You’re a hazard without a car,” Shintarou muttered.

“It’s like you want me to hack into your laptop again,” Takane said, voice coated in false sweetness.

“You are such a pain,” Shintarou complained.  “I swear, the moment I saw your booth at the school festival, I should’ve just turned around and walked the other way.”

“Why?” Takane asked.  “Wouldn’t you have regretted missing out on making friends with two wise upperclassmen?”

“Which wise upperclassmen?” Shintarou asked.  “The only upperclassmen friends I had in high school were a pair of idiots.”

Sherlock sighed and settled in for what would likely be a very long car ride.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After a seemingly endless argument, they pulled into the driveway of a very cozy-looking red-brick house, the warm yellow light shining out from its windows standing out somewhat in the rapidly-falling twilight.

“Seto’s left for work by now, right?” Takane asked, sounding a bit concerned.

“Yeah,” Shintarou said.  “Don’t worry.”

“Is he your ex-boyfriend?” Sherlock asked Takane.

“Wha—no!” she shouted.  “She’s my friend’s little brother.  No way would that _ever_ happen.”

“Then, why are you so concerned about his presence?” Sherlock asked.

“Your brother asked us not to let the two of you meet,” Takane said.  “It was one of the only conditions of your coming here.”

“Don’t ask us to explain,” Shintarou said.  “You won’t believe us.”

And, with that cryptic explanation, he got out of the car, a clear sign that he was done talking.

Under other circumstances, Sherlock might have pursued the matter further.   But there would be ample time to figure out exactly why his brother cared at all about whether he met someone even younger than the just-barely-adults he was currently trying to deduce the particulars of.

He followed Shintarou to the door, carefully removed his ragged boots in the entryway, and fought the urge to jump when Takane slammed the door shut behind her.

He felt Shintarou’s gaze resting on him, and looked up in some surprise to see the young man’s expression held just a hint of sympathy.

He drew himself up, resenting any implication that he required pity and fully prepared to expound upon why aloud, but Shintarou spoke before he could.

“This house is safe; we’ve made certain of it,” he said.  “Not even the people you’ve been after could find it, much less get inside.”

The flat, factual assurance, devoid of any attempt to commiserate or understand, pleasantly surprised Sherlock.  As a result, he elected to remain silent and follow the two Japanese down a long, airy hallway and into a large room that was divided in half—with the far end clearly being a dining room.

Whoever had designed the room clearly had a taste for clean, modern design and a poorly-controlled fondness for brand-new technology.  Sherlock estimated that it had most likely been put together on a slightly stretched middle-class budget further stressed by occasional impulsive technology purchases.  Although it was largely aesthetically pleasing, Sherlock couldn’t help but think that John, and most normal people, would have been slightly discomforted by the collection of fossils on display on one of the shelves dividing the dining room from the sitting area in the room’s other half. 

That said, the kitchen was still nice-looking.   The only place where the design fell short of reflecting a slightly more worn version of a magazine cover was the chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.  Six had been purchased to match the rest of the décor, but two cheap metal folding chairs had been added to their number, standing out starkly against the smooth, monochromatic design of the rest of the room.

The kitchen was occupied by two individuals—one, an older teenager and the other a young woman.  The teenager deftly chopped up vegetables and swept them off of the cutting mat and into a saucepan on the stove, which young woman was carefully stirring.  A rice-cooker, steam rising from it slowly, sat next to them on the counter.

“We’re back,” Shintarou said, raising a hand in greeting as both women turned around.

“Welcome back!” the older of the two said, turning around to face them.

She had a round face that was dominated entirely by an almost overwhelmingly bright smile.  Her eyes and hair were both dark brown, nearly the same shade, in fact.  She wore a red apron over a red, cowl-necked sweater and black pants.  The calluses on her hands were consistent with those of someone primarily employed as a housewife, but the strength of her posture suggested that, whoever her husband might be, she was clearly the one in charge of the relationship.  The concerned manner in which she regarded Sherlock’s admittedly ragged countenance indicated that she was a rather experienced caregiver—her behavior was nearer to that of a seasoned matron than that of a new mother, so she had either had children very early or had a large hand in the raising of her siblings.  Her smile put him in mind of Molly Hooper’s—while it was very much genuine, it was clearly there for the benefit of others more than as an expression of intrinsic joy.

The teenager was still stirring the saucepan of…well, Sherlock wasn’t familiar enough with Japanese cuisine to be absolutely positive, but it smelled as though it contained soy sauce, beef, and green vegetables.  Her hair was a lurid shade of green—strangely enough, it almost seemed to be a natural color, with highlights and lowlights. It was tied up in a high ponytail, but loose strands still hung around her face.  She wore a lavender blouse and a blue-grey skirt, along with a pair of very sensible flats.  Despite the femininity of her outfit, however, her carriage was distinctly masculine, to the point where Sherlock felt the need to double-check her build to make sure that she was, in fact, a woman.  The narrowness of her shoulders reassured him, however—she was female.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes!” the brown-haired woman said in horribly pronounced English.  She bowed, then switched to Japanese.  “My name is Tateyama Ayano.  It’s very nice to meet you!”

She elbowed the green-haired girl in the side.  “Tsubomi!”

Tsubomi turned around, a small scowl on her lips.  “Kido Tsubomi,” she said, bowing more quickly than her companion. “Call me Kido.”

She used a male form of “I,” Sherlock noted. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, dipping into a short, shallow bow before adding, “Thank you for the invitation to your house.  Tateyama _-san_ , I understand that you’re the one I’m here to meet with, correct?”

The girl’s smile fell away for a moment, her expression turning serious.  “That’s correct,” she said.  “But it’s nearly dinnertime, so we’ll save that discussion for after the meal.  Please take a seat.”

She turned to Shintarou, smiling again.  “Can you get the others from upstairs?  Momo _-chan_ is still trying to rehearse in my room, Mary _-chan_ ’s reading, and Shuuya is studying…I think.”

 _An English name—odd,_ Sherlock noted.  _I was beginning to wonder if everyone here was Japanese_.

Shintarou nodded and left, while worry flashed across Takane’s face.  “What about Haruka?” she asked.

Ayano smiled at her fondly.  “He’s upstairs finishing the painting he’s been working on,” she said.  “But he already knows we’re almost finished…”

“She means he came down here and taste-tested it,” Kido said flatly.  “Your boyfriend is a bottomless pit.”

Takane grinned. “Hey, at least he’s healthy enough to eat us out of house and home,” she said.

Kido grinned back, expression a bit softer.

Sherlock turned to Takane, but before he could open his mouth, she answered his unspoken question.

“He was born with a heart condition,” she said.  “Four years ago, it nearly killed him.  Since then, well…” she winced.  “He’s had some close calls, but nothing _near_ as bad.  He’s been on a new medication, and it seems to be working, but…” She shrugged, and tried to force a smile.  “A lot of doctors said he wouldn’t last this long, so it’s pretty amazing that he can still hang around and eat all our food.”

 _Heart condition_ was incredibly vague, and Sherlock was more than a little bit mystified by how talking about Haruka seemed to make Takane much less abrasive than usual, but Sherlock could practically hear John’s voice in his mind, warning him not to ask personal questions unless they were relevant to the case.

Fortunately, Takane didn’t seem to be expecting any sort of polite response to her speech, either.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and was about to sit down in one of the chairs when he had the strangest feeling that he ought to look behind him.  Through his time tracking Moriarty’s people, he had developed a certain amount of instinct regarding danger, but this wasn’t related to that.  Whatever was behind him wasn’t dangerous.  It was just…interesting, somehow.

He turned.  There was a young Japanese girl with bright brown eyes and dyed yellow-gold hair.  Even as the logical part of his brain noted that she was not especially remarkable in any way, he found himself almost entranced by something about her.  Unlike the other women he’d met thus far, she wore make-up.  In fact, it seemed to have been professionally applied.  Her hair was also styled, and the dye job looked rather expensive.  In stark contrast, her pink hooded sweatshirt was decidedly plain, and while the jeans and canvas trainers she wore were clearly designer items, they were well-crafted rather than flashy.  Putting her appearance together with Ayano’s earlier remark about her “rehearsing,” he came to a conclusion.

“In order to avoid offending you later when you expect me to recognize you immediately and I don’t, I am obligated to ask, who are you?” he asked.

The girl grinned at him.  “My name is Kisaragi Momo,” she said.  “If you don’t care anyway, do I really have to tell you why I’m famous?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately. _She doesn’t enjoy her fame, then?  Unsurprising.  She probably didn’t understand what she was getting into when she entered the industry, considering how young she is._

“You’re attracting attention again, Kisaragi,” Kido said, not bothering to turn around.

Momo made a sound of frustration.

“You need to train more,” Ayano said with a nod, as she started setting the table.

“I train enough!” Momo protested.  “Do you even know how many dance numbers I’m practicing this week?” 

 _Rather ungraceful for a dancer_ , Sherlock noted, as he watched her drop heavily into a chair near the wall. 

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Ayano accused good-naturedly. 

“Is Momo _-chan_ being a brat again?” A new voice practically chirped.

A teenager in a black pullover and skinny jeans of the same color stood in the doorway.  His unkempt hair was sandy blonde— _Near John’s shade_ , Sherlock noted, as he tried to shove down nostalgia—and his eyes were a brown so pale as to seem nearer to gold.  He regarded Sherlock and the other occupants of the room with a smile that was as disquieting as it was broad.  His posture did not speak of military or martial arts training, nor did his musculature or calluses suggest even the slightest experience with weapons, and yet, Sherlock was entirely sure that this boy was the most dangerous person in the room next to himself.  He recognized the look on the teen’s face—he was cataloging every detail of Sherlock’s appearance even as Sherlock was doing the same to him.  He wasn’t nearly as good at it, of course—it was taking him quite a lot longer than Sherlock had required to finish his assessment, and yet, even the fact that he had the audacity to make such an attempt spoke volumes.

“Wow, you really suck at disguises,” the boy said at length.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock said, starting to get up—until he felt a hand on his shoulder.  It was Ayano. 

With a dozen of John’s past admonishments about rudeness echoing in his thoughts, Sherlock remained seated.

“Shuuya!” she scolded.  “Don’t be rude to guests.”

“But it’s a horrible disguise!” Shuuya protested.  “I mean, come on, all he did was change his hair color and the color of his coat!  _Anyone_ could recognize him!”

“Don’t hold others to your ridiculous standards, idiot,” Kido snapped, elbowing the boy in the side as she walked past him to put the main dish on the table.

Shuuya’s expression turned from a grin to a flat expression of surprise for a half-second.  No one but Sherlock seemed to notice.

“You dress up like a nice girl, but you aren’t even the least bit gentle,” Shuuya complained, rubbing the place where she’d jabbed him.

Kido snorted.  “As if I care,” she said.  “Now, introduce yourself, before _onee-chan_ gets angry.”

Shuuya rolled his eyes but obliged.  “I’m Kano,” he said, grin still plastered on his face.  “Only Ayano- _nee-chan_ gets to call me Shuuya.”

“Oh, are we introducing ourselves?” asked a new voice. 

A tall, gaunt boy with ashen brown hair and a pallid complexion stepped through the room’s entryway, slipping past Kano with practiced ease.  Sherlock immediately identified him as the Haruka who was in a relationship with Takane, both through the signs of past disease in his appearance and the strands of black hair stuck to his green sweater.  Dried paint still clung to his fingertips, marking him as an artist, even as his slightly-wrinkled pants spoke to his general lack of attention to practical matters. 

“I’m Kokonose Haruka,” he said, grinning.  “Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock nodded, but did not offer his own introduction in return.

Haruka suddenly turned around.  “Oh, come on Mary _-chan_ , you can come out, I promise,” he said.  “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

A face, shadowed in contrast the brilliantly white hair that framed it, peeked out from behind the entryway.  Kano reached behind the door and dragged Mary the rest of the way into the kitchen.

She was petite—easily the shortest girl in the room— and an albino.  She worried the hem of her blue sundress as she regarded Sherlock, an oddly childish, pouting expression on her lips.  Her hair was longer than her knee-length skirt, and tied up with a pink silk ribbon that was, judging by the look of the fabric, older Sherlock himself was.  Her size and build indicated that she was no older than sixteen, as did the roundness of her face.  That said, there was something…odd, to her appearance, beyond the albinism, a sum of unlined features, flawless complexion and a strange sort of gravity to the way she carried herself that didn’t quite add up to anything, other than a sense of wrongness that Sherlock couldn’t articulate.

He went back through the various names that had been mentioned since his arrival.  With the exception of the mysterious Seto, this motley assemblage appeared to be everyone in the household, and, unless someone else had yet to be mentioned, everyone who would be eating with them. 

The oldest of these people were, at best, twenty-three, and two of those were seriously ill—three, if one held with the theorists who characterized the _hikkikomori_ phenomenon as some sort of psychological disorder.  The remaining adult was a housewife.  The rest of the household were teenagers.  And while they certainly seemed intriguing, they hardly seemed worthy of the travel it had taken to meet them, or capable of providing him with any actual assistance.  Between their disconcerting youth and the lack of physical wellbeing, Sherlock could hardly fathom how this group managed to gather intelligence at a level that let them gain Mycroft’s respect—and yet, somehow, they had.

What on Earth had Mycroft been thinking?

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock made an effort to endure the small talk that defined the dinner conversation by way of attempting to make deductions from it, but soon found himself losing interest.  After about five minutes of listening, he’d gathered that whatever parental figures the younger children still had were largely irrelevant save for the older four—and only Ayano out of them was a parental figure in any real sense; the others seemed to function more as either siblings or aunts/uncles.   Later conversation indicated that Ayano was, in fact, legally the guardian of Kano and Kido, and that Mary was also a permanent resident at the house; the others just visited often.  Momo was apparently failing all of her classes, Mary’s taste in literature was not appropriate dinner table conversation, and Takane needed to buy a new pair of headphones…honestly, he could only listen to so much of this.

“Is there a reason why you’ve invited me here?” he asked, cutting off Haruka midsentence before he could begin what promised to be an epic narrative about his most recent trip to the local ramen stand.

“There is,” Ayano said, smiling gently from her seat at the head of the table.  “We want to help you.”

“And what makes you think I need help?” Sherlock asked, stiffening.

“We got ahold of security footage from Prague,” Takane said flatly.  “And Brest and Viru—Bil—that place in Lithuania before that.”

“A person doesn’t jump off of a building when they have other options,” Ayano said.

Sherlock was about to argue, to ask, _What would you know about it?_ but then he saw her eyes. 

That was the same expression that had been in John’s eyes when he’d told Sherlock what went through a person’s mind when they were about to die.  Ayano, somehow, _knew_ something of what she spoke of.

“I really don’t know what you could do,” Sherlock said.  “I don’t know how much Mycroft told you…”

Shintarou smirked.  “Almost nothing,” he said.  “But that was because we figured it out ourselves.”

“Was it that easy?” Sherlock asked, feigning calm.

“Kano _-san_ was the one who figured out it wasn’t real,” Shintarou said.  “He’s good at recognizing lies.  He asked me to help him figure out how and why it was faked, and Ene helped us dig up the data we needed to do it.  We know everything, down to what really happened on the roof of St. Bart’s.”

“Do you think someone else could have—”

“No,” Kano said firmly.  “Anyone else would’ve been convinced.  “Your friend John was, and he wanted to be least of all.  If he was able to be fooled…”

"You have to tell him," Kido said, unexpectedly.

"No," Sherlock said. "Out of the question."

"Was all that stuff about 'relying on him' and 'respecting his skills' he put in the blog a pack of lies, or what?" Takane asked, crossing her arms.

Sherlock was beginning to become annoyed. "I do trust his skills; however, Moriarty has a sniper watching him, assigned to kill him should I prove to be alive, and  _I have not found the sniper yet_."

Mycroft had located the ones assigned to the others, but John’s sniper had proved the most skilled—naturally, Moriarty _had_ been a genius—and Sherlock still didn’t even know the man’s name, much less how to find him.

"Then go in disguise," Kano said, almost lazily. "A better one than you’ve got on, of course.  And then tell him he can't tell anyone else you aren't dead."

"It's still too much of a risk," Sherlock said firmly.

"And you think the current situation isn't?" Kano asked, catching Sherlock's eyes. He was still grinning like a madman-literally, the boy was starting to remind Sherlock of Moriarty, at least in his facial expressions-but there was something oddly dark in his eyes.

Ayano paled. "Surely nothing like that-"

"You couldn't tell anyone," Shintarou said. "There wasn't time. But Holmes _-san_  could have sent word to Watson _-sensei_  afterward. And he didn't. Unlike you, that makes him responsible for whatever his actions do to Watson _-sensei_."

He gave her a look that seemed significant, though Sherlock still lacked the data to discern _why_. "That's something you can help him understand, isn't it?"

Ayano held his gaze, the smile finally thinning into a grim line. "You have a point. Holmes _-san_  should know  _all_  of the results of his actions."

" _Nee-chan_ , are you sure that's really needed?" Kido asked, looking a bit nervous.

Ayano nodded, then faced Sherlock, her expression serious. "I am," Ayano said. "I can tell--he's like Kano and Shintarou. He seems apathetic, but it's just because he can't bear to let himself feel anything."

Her smile was back, but this time it had an edge to it, one that reminded Sherlock of the harsh, sharp grins John would sometimes offer in response to finding out that a particularly vicious criminal was caught.

"Given the circumstances, he can't be allowed to continue in that way of thinking."

Her eyes flashed red, and Sherlock lost control of his own emotional state.

He was being swamped by a rush of conflicting emotions, ones that felt at once foreign in his consciousness and strangely familiar. Profound, encompassing grief dried up his throat even as adrenaline born of distinctly irrational anger coursed through him. Tangled up in all of that was a feeling of fondness so strong it almost physically warmed him, edged by an unwavering desire to protect and defend those things that inspired it. The entire mess was blurred, just slightly, by nostalgia, and Sherlock seized on that emotion, the only one he felt entirely able to deal with, and held onto it with all of his might even as he tried to figure out what on Earth was happening to him.

He was so busy trying to determine exactly how he'd succumbed so easily to sentiment-with no outside stimulus to provoke it, no less-that he was startled when Ayano's voice broke through his swirling thoughts.

"That is what John Watson _-sensei_  feels when someone says your name."

The unwanted sentiment vanished as abruptly as it had come, leaving Sherlock feeling unbalanced and just a bit empty as he gaped at her.

"Even though you can't understand how that could have possibly been real, you know it was, don't you?" Kano said. "You know him well enough to recognize his emotions as what they are."

"H-how on Earth..." Sherlock managed.

Ayano cut him off. "It's something only I can do," she said, smiling shyly. "You'll  _never_  encounter it again. Not as long as I'm alive. So it's not anything you need to know about for the future."

"But that was...real?" Sherlock said. "Surely you can't expect me to believe...you must have dosed me with something, I'm sure if I test the food-"

The woman's smile turned indulgent. "You won't find a thing. Besides, what kind of drug could make you feel emotions that are so completely John Watson's? _"_

She was right, of course. Sherlock could find other explanations for the sudden rush of feeling and Ayano's ability to suddenly end it, but he had no other explanation of why it had felt so much like  _John_.

"...You aren't deceiving me," he concluded.

"Nope, that's my job," Kano said, grinning even  _more_  like Moriarty than he first had.

Kido punched him in the shoulder, and for a split second, Kano's expression turned into a small, tentative attempt at a smile. And then the broad grin was back, and Sherlock finally realized what was so unsettling about Kano's grin-it was a perfect copy of Ayano's, and his eyes didn't quite match it.  What on earth _were_ these people?

“Your brother can testify to the fact that none of us are completely ordinary,” Takane said, smirking.  “Honestly, even if I was a genius on Shintarou’s level, do you really think I’d be able to hack into his systems using mundane means?”

“Let’s just say, that there’s a case here in Kaniwa City that you don’t need to look into, no matter how interesting it sounds,” Kano said.  “A case involving a series of incidents that took place on August 15th, ones that have finally come to an end.”

“And this is somehow related to how your sister can make me feel other people’s emotions?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Ayano said, still smiling, though her tone practically forbade further questions.  

“In Dr. Watson’s blog, he said that you’d believe in the supernatural, if you were given proof,” Shintarou said.  “This is proof.  We can give you more, if you need it, but—it’s not really a _lot_ of supernatural.  Just, for heaven’s sake, don’t come to this town on August 15 th, and if you ever encounter a talking snake, _do not_ wish to resurrect someone.”

“That is extremely specific advice,” Sherlock said.

“We haven’t found proof that anything supernatural outside of this town’s weirdness exists, and this town’s weirdness…well, it’s less dangerous now, but I don’t want to tempt fate,” Shintarou said, shuddering visibly, a haunted look in his eyes.

 _He is trying not to be specific, but clearly something he doesn’t want to speak about happened..._ Sherlock thought.  _Something horrifying enough he can’t bring himself to pretend not to care about it, as he normally might.  The lack of older adults around these children may be related to this phenomenon, whatever it was.  I should probably take his…still extremely bizarre…advice seriously._

Ayano put a hand on Shintarou’s shoulder.  “We had to make a lot of sacrifices, and not everyone could be saved….but we won, in the end.”

“And you can, too,” Momo put in.  “I believe in you!”  She looked ready to continue, but before she could open her mouth again, Kido spoke.

“Momo _-chan_ , don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think our guest is going to appreciate it if you start singing ‘Moon-Viewing Recital’ right now,” Kido said.

“But it’s a good, encouraging song!” Momo protested.

“He doesn’t like pop music,” Kido said, exasperated.

“Oh,” Momo said, wilting slightly.

Sherlock cast Kido a grateful look, then turned back to Ayano, and summoned every stray bit of tact he’d picked up from John.

“I realize this is far from the most delicate question, but…it seemed, earlier, that you understood something of my situation,” he said. “Can I ask why that is?”

The immediate effect was almost exactly the same as the time John had accidentally gotten one of Sherlock’s experiments out of the fridge and put it on the table during a dinner party instead of the mashed potatoes—everyone froze.

Then, Kido winced, as did Mary—though Sherlock could’ve sworn that Mary’s _hair_ winced as well, somehow.  Momo frowned down at her plate and Haruka took a sudden interest in the hem of his sweater.  Takane’s eyes flew to Shintarou, who had paled so violently as to look slightly grey.  She looked worried.  Kano’s smile didn’t even flicker, and Sherlock was more certain than ever that it was at least a good act, and more likely some sort of supernatural ability in the vein of what Ayano had just demonstrated. 

Ayano, meanwhile, just took a slow, deep breath, lowering her gaze for a moment before looking back up with a serious expression. “He was going to kill my little brothers and sister,” she said softly.  “I had to do something.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything in response.  He wanted to hear this, and if he spoke, he was too likely to say something that would end with her offended and refusing to continue.

 “I couldn’t do what I can do now, back then,” she said.  “I couldn’t do anything, but try to watch out for them and cheer them up…and protect them when someone was trying to hurt them.  And he was.  And he was going to use _Dad_ to do it.  I couldn’t just stand by.”

 _That would have been very frightening, by anyone’s standards,_ he reflected. _Clearly Ayano-san is a strong woman, to stand up to a person like that…_

“You’re so much smarter than me, you must’ve had other plans,” she said.  “But I could only think of the one.  It was all I could do to keep it a secret from Shuuya long enough to put it into action.” She smiled apologetically at the boy.  “I’m still sorry.”

Still smiling, Kano nodded.

“The reason that man…that being wanted to kill my siblings was to fulfill a certain wish, and in order to fulfill that wish, there were certain things he needed,” Ayano continued.  “Like I said, I’m not that smart, so I did the only thing I could think of—I made sure he couldn’t get one of those things, so his plan wouldn’t be able to work, and no one would need to die.”

Confused, Sherlock asked, “But how does that—“

“I had to jump off of a building to do it,” Ayano said levelly, making the whole table wince.  “My death was faked, and I didn’t come back for two years.”

“Could you not talk about it so bluntly?” Kido asked, her voice a bit strained.

“You say I don’t have tact?” Shintarou muttered.  “Hmpf.  ‘I’m sorry I died!’ Who’s the one who doesn’t have tact?”

Empathy was _not_ Sherlock’s strong suit, but since he knew from his own experience how terrifying jumping off that roof had been, as an adult with his brother’s intelligence network behind him…

 “That must have been very frightening,” he said.

Ayano inclined her head. “It was necessary,” she said.  “Like what you’re doing is.  But John’s suffering, and the suffering of the other people who care about you …that isn’t necessary at all.”

Sherlock looked around the table again, realizing that most, if not all, of these children were taking John’s part so passionately because they’d been in John’s position for some time.

“I was the only one who knew she wasn’t actually dead,” Kano said, his smile a bit more subdued than it had been.  “But I didn’t think she could come back, _ever_ , so it wasn’t any better.”

“I went into school one day and she was gone,” Shintarou said, voice so quiet as to be nearly inaudible.  “No warning, no explanation…I spent the next two years wondering what went wrong.”

Ayano reached over and squeezed his hand, but her eyes never left Sherlock’s.

Sherlock felt discomfort churn at his stomach, but, at the same time, he couldn’t quite shove down his indignation at the thought that he was somehow all right with the thought of needlessly inflicting pain on his flat mate.

“Perhaps you take me for some sort of unfeeling freak,” the word slipped out, unbidden, “but I was simply attempting to keep John and the others safe, as best I could,” he said stiffly.

Ayano’s expression hardened, reminding Sherlock of John moments before he’d punched Dimmock.  He was becoming more and more sure that this girl was, in her own way, cut from the same steel as John was.

“ _No one_ is accusing anyone of being a freak,” she said firmly. 

“And maybe disappearing without a word really was the best you could do, back then,” Haruka spoke up.  “But it’s not, anymore.  Because we’re going to help.”

“And before you ask what we can do, the answer is a heck of a lot,” Takane said.  “We’ll fill you in on what exactly our abilities are once we start making plans…but the important stuff?” She glanced at Momo.

“Two things,” the blonde said, holding up two fingers.  “One, _Nii-san_ and Ene can help you figure out who that sniper is.  And two, the rest of us can get you into England, so you can take him out and tell Dr. Watson you’re okay.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Sherlock asked, regarding a girl who all the evidence he had indicated was clumsy, unintelligent, and poor at making decisions.

Momo grinned at him.

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**Author's Note:**

> I'm at least considering writing another chapter, but I haven't decided for certain yet. We'll see. If there is another chapter, it will officially contradict Series 3 Episode 1, and feature an alternate version of John and Sherlock's reunion--as well as Momo's plan (which will actually be good, since she's actually somewhat of a tactical genius despite the ditziness).
> 
> Yes, Sherlock fans, you are not the only fandom that has suffered through a beloved character faking suicide in a very horrible, saddening manner in front of another character you also liked a lot. KagePro is awful, too, and the fans know something of your pain.
> 
> KagePro/MCA post-canon explanation: This fic assumes that the anime version of Summertime Record was the final timeline, so everyone definitely remembers each other. The anime ending doesn't tell us much beyond that, but since they are still alive, I assume they still have their snakes and their powers. Since Haruka and Takane are now both in their original bodies, I assume they're both ill again--though Takane can at least go into a computer when she has an attack, rather than simply sleeping, so she considers herself "better" than she was. Since Kenjirou's dead now, and Ayano's both alive and possibly an adult (it's difficult to tell by the anime whether she aged in the Daze or not) she's the kids' guardian now. Hibiya and Hiyori aren't in the fic or Kaniwa City because they aren't from Kaniwa City and would've gone home to their small town and their parents after summer break ended.


End file.
